


Fantasy: Take One

by eleanor_lavish, thepsychicclam



Series: Valiant Effort [18]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-18
Updated: 2009-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepsychicclam/pseuds/thepsychicclam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy fantasizes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasy: Take One

**Author's Note:**

> Written by EL.

It was the first time in a long time Billy had the apartment to himself. Orlando had taken to spending more and more nights away. Days too. Billy knew he spent most of those with Liv, which was bad enough, but he had the suspicion Orlando was spending his time… elsewhere as well. He was worried, and angry, and jealous (although he’d never admit it to anyone), but Orlando never missed a band meeting or a rehearsal, and, as he himself had been so quick to point out, they weren’t together. So he never asked where Orlando spent his nights.

Most of him really didn’t want to know anyway.

Dom’s hours had become more erratic too, and Elijah was spending time actually studying in the library. Billy noticed them acting oddly around each other for a few months now, a sudden increase in the sexual tension that had always been there, sometimes with added heat, sometimes with added animosity. The situation hadn’t come to a boil yet, but he had his eye on the kettle. Billy wasn’t afraid to step in and take action if they proved too infantile to deal with it themselves.

 _Fucking infants_ , he muttered to himself while hanging up his jacket in the closet and dumping dishes left from breakfast in the sink, covering them with hot water to soak off dried egg yolk and jam. _Can’t manage to clean a fucking dish much less clean up their own fucking problems._

He was in what his Gran would call “a Mood”. He had been for weeks. Valiant Effort had a record deal, which was good, but they had yet to record the first studio album. The album they had been hocking at concerts was a dirty mix of live concert tracks from New York and a few ratty studio tracks from London, with Stuart instead of Elijah. They were set to enter the studio to record in less than a month, and they had only two weeks to do it. Bean had faith that they could make it big, but he was a cautious businessman and wasn’t about to coddle. Two weeks studio time, one album, promotion to begin soon after.

Billy spent all day at work, all night working on instrumental arrangements, and whatever time he spent trying to sleep was usually taken up with nightmare visions of Dom and Elijah in a massive fight, or Orlando going solo, or getting booed of the stage at their release party.

He hadn’t felt the weight of the world on his shoulders like this since right after his Ma died, helping Margaret pack up the house.

Billy sighed and walked into the bedroom, kicking off his shoes and dress trousers into a heap in the corner. There was a draft from the window but his side of the room was warm and toasty from the space heater they had graciously accepted from Liv. (“No wonder Orli spends all this time at my house! This place is fucking freezing!” she had said, and the heater was purchased that day.)

Lying down wearily on his bedspread, Billy shut his eyes, willing himself to nap. They had a late rehearsal that night, and he still had work in the morning. He lay there, staring at the ceiling for a good fifteen minutes before realizing he wasn’t going to get to sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping well ever since Orlando stopped sharing his bed. He missed having a warm body next to him, missed waking up tangled in Orli’s long limbs.

What he did not miss (nope, not at all) were the mornings he would wake up with Orli’s erection pressed firmly into his thigh, Orli’s lips breathing warmly on his neck, Orli’s hand splayed lightly over his ass. Those mornings were spent in hot, steamy showers, punctuated by a quick wank and a stream of curses as he came-- sometimes directed at Orlando fucking Bloom and his perfect fucking everything, usually just incoherent and gasping—with Billy pressing himself up against the tiles after to cool down his body.

Billy wondered if Orlando thought of him while wanking in the shower, water running in perfect rivers down his tall body, clinging to the curls at the nape of his neck. He knew so much about Orli, what he smelled like fresh from the shower, the feeling of his stomach under Billy’s hands, the taste of his tongue after three shots of whiskey, and even, after that night upstate, the whimpering sounds he wouldn’t hold back right before he came. But sometimes, like now, Billy wanted to know more, know everything. And what frustrated him the most was that all he had to do was ask.

But he wouldn’t ask. Asking would take him places he couldn’t deal with.

So Billy, knowing so much about Orlando already, extrapolated.

 _Dom wore his wrist cuffs for reasons he wouldn’t talk about, but it wasn’t as a sub. Orlando wore the same cuffs, why?_ Billy placed one arm under his head and closed his eyes, picturing the black leather on the pale skin. He ran his other hand slowly down his white T-shirt and slipped his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. _Maybe to imitate Dom at first, but now he likes the feeling of them on his wrists, the chafe, the restraint._ He wrapped his fingers around his cock, already thrumming with heat.

 _He slouches, tries to make him smaller, always coiled slightly, ready for anything. Ready for me?_ Billy couldn’t stifle the moan as he imagined Orli coiled underneath him, ready. How long? He thought as he wiped the precum from the head of his cock with his thumb roughly, increased the pace of his fist. How long would he fight me? Would you bite? Would you snarl? Or would you let me tie you up? You would. You’d beg me for it.

Billy could picture him, pale body marked with dark designs, head thrown back on dark sheets, eyes covered with one of Billy’s work ties, hands bound by a thin silver chain to a dark wooden headboard through those cuffs. Begging. Begging for Billy’s hands on him, Billy’s mouth, his cock. Billy moaned out loud at the thought of it. _Orlando._ The name was loud in the small room and Billy felt it wash over him, pushing him to go faster, his arm constricted under the fabric of his boxers.

Billy’s free arm pushed his boxers down over his hips impatiently as he thrust into his strokes. He flung the arm over his eyes, concentrated on the picture in his mind, the sound of blood rushing through his body turning slowly into Orlando’s pleading voice. _”What do you want Orlando?” “You, God, PLEASE Billy...”_ Billy imagined himself covering up the length of Orli’s body, skin barely brushing skin. Ragged, shallow breaths rattled his chest as he felt the tension building to a climax, his hips barely touching the mattress below. He felt a bead of sweat running down the side of his neck. In his head, Orlando licked it clean.

 _“What do you want me to do to you then?”_ It was always the same. Billy rarely fantasized about fucking Orlando, what his face would look like when Billy entered him, how his body would fold and bend under Billy’s hands. Not that he planned it that way. He always started these scenarios fully intending to fuck Orlando until he screamed, until the muscles in his arms were sore from straining against the chains, until he came hot and hard all over Billy’s pristine fantasy sheets.

But Billy knew Orlando too well, knew his voice, and how it would sound muttering incoherently “Fuck me, Jesus, Billy, please, please, waited so long, need you to fuck me, need you Bills, please” and Billy would lose control entirely. He couldn’t hold out, not with Orli whispering in his ear, begging for what Billy knew he couldn’t give.

Billy came hard, eyes squeezed so tight he could see rainbow stars. He lay panting on the mattress for a few long seconds, the sweat on his body cooling him even in the warm room. He sat up and pulled off the white t-shirt, wiping himself clean and throwing it into the corner fiercely.

He was cold now, and on the verge of sticky, and it was all Orlando’s fault. Grabbing his towel off the floor where someone (probably Orli) had dropped it unceremoniously the day before, he crawled off the bed and opened the door, heading for the shower.

“Fucking British bastard,” he muttered, slamming the bathroom door closed as his feet hit the cold tile floor.

~Fin  



End file.
